Chapter Twelve

To everyone’s surprise, the Imperial Guards and the palace bodyguards were not nearly as formidable as expected. This noble profession was generally reserved for Manchu aristocrats or the descendants of meritorious officials—in Lin Feng’s time, one might have called them “hereditary gentlemen.” These men were, on the whole, far more educated than other Qing troops. If it came to performing comic dialogues, singing opera, reciting poetry, or painting, no other unit could compare to them. But when it came to fighting and risking their lives, it was a different story altogether; in the seventeenth century, a highly cultured and educated army was not necessarily a superior one on the battlefield.

The joint force of the Imperial Guards and palace bodyguards wore mismatched uniforms and barely managed to form a defensive line at the city gate. Admittedly, some core members were skilled, leaping and fighting valiantly, but individual prowess counted for little in such chaotic combat. Organized groups with battle experience always held the advantage, and, to Lin Feng’s relief, the legendary martial arts masters failed to distinguish themselves. The so-called imperial bodyguards were no different from ordinary soldiers; when struck by swords or spears, they bled and fell just the same, and against the well-prepared, battle-hardened enemy, they gradually retreated.

Fearful, exhausted, their ranks shattered and their numbers dwindling, the defending officers led what remained of their beaten troops in a desperate retreat toward the inner palace.

From a distance, Lin Feng saw Zhao Guangyuan’s hundred-strong cavalry charge deep into the fray. As the horses surged forward, sabers rose and fell, blood sprayed, and heads rolled—no one could withstand them for more than a moment. By the time Rick’s musketeers joined in, the city’s defense was already collapsing, and the guards were fleeing in panic toward the inner palace.

According to Zhou Peigong’s original plan, the Forbidden City’s walls were ablaze with torches, illuminating everything as if it were daylight. The defending troops, led by experienced Liaodong officers, patrolled constantly, sealing every possible escape. It was believed that the Kangxi clique could not possibly slip away.

When Lin Feng rode into the inner palace square, the battle had already penetrated far into the rear chambers. Perhaps out of desperation, the palace guards and Imperial troops were now shoving eunuchs and maids onto the front lines as cannon fodder; some of the stronger eunuchs were even forced to take up arms and fight. Gold and silver treasures were scattered across the ground to tempt the enemy.

There were very few captives—Kangxi and only two others, which was a bit disappointing. When the prisoners were brought forward, Lin Feng couldn’t help asking, “Old Zhao, is this all?”

“Reporting, sir!” Zhao Guangyuan saw Lin Feng sitting so casually on the emperor’s throne and felt more certain than ever that he was following a true sovereign; his respect deepened. “Most of the ministers who fled into the palace were hopelessly conservative—over half committed suicide, and those who could wield a weapon died fighting. Only a few civil officials survived to be captured.”

“And why is that fellow covered in blood?” Lin Feng pointed at Kangxi, who was drenched in blood and had already fallen unconscious.

“Sir, we didn’t expect it either. Kangxi himself…” Zhao Guangyuan unconsciously mimicked Lin Feng’s tone, then realized how odd it sounded and felt awkward, his admiration growing—only his lord would refer to the emperor so nonchalantly. He collected himself. “He actually fought us in person; at first, the men didn’t realize he was the emperor and didn’t hold back. Later, a eunuch recognized him, and we tried to take him alive, but it took a huge effort. By the look of him, though…” Zhao Guangyuan swallowed and didn’t finish.

“Remarkable, truly remarkable!” Lin Feng nodded, impressed. It seemed the histories were not entirely exaggerating—Kangxi was said to be a skilled martial artist and an expert hunter, having slain countless beasts in his life. Seeing him now, Lin Feng was convinced. He descended the steps and knelt beside Kangxi, ignoring the nearby ministers who struggled uselessly, their mouths tightly gagged. Gently, he lifted Kangxi’s head and, gazing at the emperor’s face, was momentarily stunned.

The Kangxi Emperor was pockmarked? And, frankly, rather homely—sharp chin, prominent cheekbones, a look that would disappoint any audience. One wondered what the directors of those period dramas were thinking, always casting handsome actors as Kangxi—wasn’t that just whitewashing history?

Seeing Lin Feng lost in thought as he gazed at Kangxi, the others glanced at each other, puzzled. None of them could have guessed that Lin Feng was busy comparing the emperor’s features to the faces of modern celebrities.

Lin Feng was left speechless. Whatever his personal feelings, he had to admit this was a man of grand bearing—a true emperor and a man among men. He had done everything possible, made every effort. Even now, facing defeat and mortal danger, he remained composed and dignified. Not everyone could do that.

Moved, Lin Feng looked down once more. Kangxi’s breath had long since ceased; his pale face was peaceful. Once the most exalted person in the world, now he was only a corpse.

With a heavy sigh, Lin Feng straightened and solemnly bowed deeply to him. After a silent moment, he pointed at the body and turned to Chen Menglei. “Take him and… hmm…”

“A proper burial?” Chen Menglei ventured.

Lin Feng shook his head, gritted his teeth, and said, “Cut off his head and parade it around the capital!”

A few steps away, Lin Feng caught sight of two dejected Qing officials and snorted. “Who are these two?”

“They are the false Minister of War, Mingzhu, and the false Grand Scholar, Songgotu,” replied Zhao Guangyuan, carefully repeating what Chen Menglei had just taught him.

Aside: The flintlock musket technology had already appeared and been recorded in books by the late Ming dynasty. China was capable of developing and manufacturing it independently, and some units were even equipped with them. The rifling mentioned in this chapter refers to straight grooves, introduced from Turkey in the mid-Ming and issued to the three main Beijing garrisons, as seen in the official histories. This type of rifling required no lathe—hand workshops sufficed. It was different from the modern spiral rifling.

6. The opening section of this novel—in which the protagonist leads a surprise attack on Beijing—is entirely my own invention, inspired by some historical materials but purely fictional. There’s no point in scrutinizing it or attacking the author. Here, I list some references as technical background.

During the Kangxi reign, the Eight Banners Army, excluding Mongol auxiliaries, numbered about 160,000, divided between the capital garrison and other posts. Normally, Beijing and its environs had 60,000-80,000 stationed troops. But during the Revolt of the Three Feudatories, because the rebel forces expanded rapidly, Kangxi boldly dispatched northern troops south, leaving the Beijing garrison dangerously depleted. As the war progressed, Kangxi’s judgment led to further redeployments. The sudden rebellion of *** disrupted his plans, forcing him to send more reinforcements to Shaanxi and Gansu, leaving Beijing’s defenses dangerously thin. At this critical moment, the Suiyuan Chahar tribe rebelled, threatening the capital—note that, unlike the Ming, the Qing had no Great Wall defense line, and places like Datong and Xuanfu were not heavily fortified, meaning the Mongol cavalry could ride straight to Beijing. In this perilous situation, the emperor scoured for troops, even conscripting servants, to barely scrape together a force in the capital—testimony to the desperate state of affairs.

The image of Kangxi as an invincible and wise ruler, as seen in modern media or official histories, is not entirely accurate. In the early and middle stages of the war, he made many grave mistakes—hardly surprising, since, at the time, he was barely in his twenties with no military experience, facing veteran generals. To imagine he was flawless from the outset is unrealistic. One event illustrates Beijing’s actual condition: according to the Qing histories, a man named Yang Qilong, likely a local gang leader, dared to launch a rebellion inside the capital, trying to seize control with his thugs. Though suppressed, the very attempt speaks volumes about Beijing’s weakened defenses.

The hardships, vulnerability, and anxiety of the Qing regime at this time are far beyond what modern readers can imagine. In Jin Yong’s “The Deer and the Cauldron,” the Shunzhi Emperor tells Kangxi that, if the war goes badly, the Eight Banners should retreat to Liaodong—this is historically sound, as the Banner forces totaled only sixteen or seventeen thousand, and few believed a prolonged campaign in the heartland was possible. Later generations hailed Kangxi as the “Sacred Ancestor” of the Qing, and not without reason. It was under his leadership that the Manchus finally conquered the Han Chinese, binding them as subjects forever. To preserve the dynasty was even harder than to found it; thus, he is called the Sacred Ancestor.

From a historiographical perspective, Qing dynasty records are among the least reliable, and official persecution of culture reached unprecedented heights. The “Draft History of Qing,” compiled under the Beiyang government, is a bit better, but its chief editor, Zhao Erxun, did not take a clear stance and was vague on this period. The military operations described in this novel are fictionalized to fit the circumstances of that brief historical moment: Tuhai led the capital’s last mobile force to Suiyuan to suppress the Chahar rebellion, together with Mongol allies. Kangxi and the Minister of War planned to finish the campaign in two or three months (as they did historically) and then return to reinforce Beijing’s defenses. The protagonist exploits this fleeting window. That said, even if Beijing’s defenses were as weak as described, logistical and landing difficulties aside, the protagonist’s five-thousand-strong force would not have been sufficient to accomplish such a mission; the Beijing region was densely populated, and a secret assault by so small a force would be nearly impossible. If the city were alerted, the defenders could easily mobilize the populace to man the walls, rendering a rapid assault futile without specialized equipment.

In fact, only Zheng Jing in Taiwan had the naval and amphibious capability to launch such an attack. Had he not fixated on Fujian and instead landed 15,000–20,000 marines near Beijing, perhaps later generations would not have had the chance to “sing the same old tune.” But with Zheng Chenggong’s early death, his descendants proved capable stewards but lacked initiative—a tremendous historical regret.

As a work of alternate history and fantasy, I believe there’s little point in overanalyzing such scenarios. An author’s job is to identify a plausible historical opening, use it, and, through literary means, make the story generally credible. For example, in this book, using slave transport by ship, disguising as Qing troops, or blowing open city gates with water eunuchs—all these are logical and align with common sense and are thus acceptable to readers. It’s a bit like, in Huang Yi’s “Twin Dragons of the Tang,” Kou Zhong’s adventure in Liangdu—though, of course, I do not presume to compare myself to Master Huang; it is merely an analogy.

One more point: once the central defenses are secured, five thousand men are enough to control Beijing; after eliminating resistance, only one to one and a half thousand are needed to maintain basic order, even in a city of nearly a million.

The reason for this lengthy explanation is to forestall nitpicking from some readers. I repeat: this is a work of alternate fantasy, entirely my own imagination and invention. I do not welcome challenges, nor will I debate the matter.

Ideal Era
On the completion date of Chapter Two